The Naming of Things
by notunbroken
Summary: Sharon wrestles with cold logic as she prepares for a milestone dinner. / Andy's careful plans list sideways as he prepares to meet Sharon for their dinner at Serve. / Andy finds Serve to be both romantic and posh, to his dismay. / Sharon looks forward. [Complete]
1. Chapter 1

_'Cause you remind me of you_  
 _When you shot through_  
 _And broke my window glass_  
 _It happened so fast_  
 _I have to confess_  
 _I was impressed_  
 _Yeah, I was impressed_  
 _Despite all the mess and the broken glass  
I was impressed_

 _—_

Sharon's heart beats thick in her throat.

She holds a tube of lipstick in each hand.

She stares at them as if they might address the whirlpool swirling through her head.

At the center, spinning everything else downward, sits one concept:

 _What the hell am I doing?_

To get here, she'd made it past the trip to Nordstrom for a dress, with the ever-practical reasoning that a visit to a trendy, _romantic_ restaurant required a certain kind of frock...one that didn't already live in her closet.

She'd made it past explaining her evening plans to Rusty with nonchalant ease. He'd shrugged and grinned and said he'd grab In-N-Out for dinner.

She'd made it past brushing on a dinner-appropriate smoky eye and slipping in contacts and twisting her hair into an evening updo, with a few "effortless" tendrils left loose to frame her face.

She made it past sliding on sapphire teardrop earrings and a matching necklace. She made it past zipping up her new close-cut navy silk dress, with its intricate pattern of seams hugging her waist and its v-neck dipping just low enough to distinguish it from office attire. She even made it past spritzing on her special occasion Coco Noir and stepping into her wholly impractical burgundy peep toe stilettos.

No, she made it to the final of finishing touches, pulling several shades of lipstick from their organizer, weighing which choice was best. She was just fine until she narrowed to two options, held the contenders before her, and found herself wondering which one Andy would prefer.

Because she's going on a date. With him. To a romantic new restaurant. An undoubtedly pricy new restaurant. It's a gesture. It's a message.

Sharon sinks onto the bench at the foot of her bed, still gripping a plastic tube in each hand. Certainty hits her like a brick. She should've turned down his offer.

 _What the hell was I thinking?_

Andy is her subordinate, for God's sake. It might not be against the rules, but picking up a relationship with him — a real, reservations-at-a-new-romantic-spot relationship — is a spectacularly illogical idea. It pulls the weight of their careers along with it, not to mention the attention of at least four other officers. _Plus_ the attention of her boss. And probably her boss's boss.

All of them, bracing against the possibility that this... _whatever_ could crash and burn.

 _No pressure._

She should've said 'no.' She should've told him, then and there, that it's a terrible idea. It's against all odds, against their past experiences, against common sense. They've navigated, somehow, into a friendship. A close, deep, understanding friendship. A friendship she hates to jeopardize.

Might it be greedy, pushing too far, to try for something more?

On now less steady feet, Sharon returns to her vanity. She replaces the lipsticks into their holder. Following a deep, cleansing breath, she stares into her own eyes. What she finds is a version of herself she hasn't seen in years — a narrow facet of her being, where self-indulgence and snappy impulses reign, where living for the moment outweighs most everything else. That's where she was when her life veered off course, decades ago. It's where she was when she told Andy 'Fine' last night.

She shakes her head. _You should've said no, lady. You should've set him right, let him down easy, made an excuse or five, brought it to an end before it can come crashing to a halt._

 _Even if he_ was _almost unbearably adorable, laughing at his own prison joke._

But…

Then again…

Should she have taken that route, even if his obvious nerves left her charmed beyond any recent comparison? The memory leaves the corners of her mouth lifting. He views the situation as seriously as she does. This wasn't a throwaway invitation. He knew the stakes.

And it isn't as if he doesn't know her past. She's told him more about her marriage than she's told anyone beyond her family. And that was without any prying on his part, no matter how much he may have been tempted. It all just kind of...came up, as they've grown closer.

It's all come up, in their hours and hours of conversations. Easy, flowing talks that cover the spectrum from punchy banter to near-buried history. With Andy, she's never felt the need to hold back. After all, he's described to her his addiction, his strained bonds with his kids, the neverending climb from the hole he believes he dug for himself. He's an open book. She's tried to be the same. It wasn't as hard as she'd expected.

From the bedroom, Sharon's phone buzzes. Once, then twice. A cut of panic follows the sound and sets off a different flow of worry.

 _What if we just caught a case?_

 _What if he changed his mind?_

 _Isn't that what I just wanted?_

 _Won't he just change his mind eventually, anyway? Just like everyone else? Only, now, in front of our whole squad? The entire department?_

It's this last that lingers, stubbornly, as she finds Andy's name on the screen. She swipes into the device, swallowing past a different kind of pressure in her throat as she taps to open his texts.

 _Hey, traffic on the 405 was a mess. Might not make it by 7. Didn't want you to worry._

Sharon finds herself grinning as she scrolls down.

 _I'm really looking forward to dinner and hate to be late. But I figured you'd be mad if I went Code 3 just to get there on time._

His joke, by itself, isn't all that funny. But its familiarity — he's forever threatening to go lights-and-sirens for any number of trivial reasons — combined with his easy reassurance and the internal argument she's just had over him leaves her doubled over, laughing. She laughs until her face aches and tears escape her eyes. She giggles through tapping out a response — _Not a problem. Drive SAFELY. I'm not going anywhere._ — and bursts into another round of full-throated laughter as soon as it's gone.

She's ridiculous. And maybe that's okay. Ridiculous is light. Ridiculous is unburdened. Maybe she can be in an overall ridiculous relationship with Andy and still end up okay, too.

Having wiped off half her makeup, Sharon returns to her vanity for a reapplication. She re-ups the smokiness and darkens her liner and adds an extra coat of mascara.

A knock sounds at her bedroom door just as she finishes repairing the damage wrought by her laughing fit.

"Oh Sharon," Rusty's voice curls on a goading note. "You have a visitor."

"I'll be right out," she calls.

She can't hold in her smile as she gives herself a final once-over in the mirror. This is where she was when she said "Fine." It's a good place. She could get used to it.

For the final touch, she reaches for a lipstick the shade of a candy apple.

It's always had a way of capturing Andy's attention.

* * *

 _A/N: This idea came to me, quite literally, as I was driving home from work the other day. I have no idea where it came from, but it was a quick, contained break from "Resilient," so I went for it._

 _There_ might _be another chapter to this, coming from the other half of the equation..._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Surprise! Thanks to everyone who commented on the first chapter, therefore goading me (in a good way) into writing Andy's side of the date preparations._

 _Special shout-out to LeauH2o, who left what is the greatest one-liner I've seen on one of my stories thus far: "[Sharon's] lipstick dilemma had me thinking - what color would look best on Andy"_

 _I nearly spit out my coffee when I first saw that, and here we have another chapter. Inspirational magic, I tell you._

* * *

 _Hey, just look at the mess you made today_  
 _You really didn't think it would get this bad_  
 _Hey, you feel like you're living in a Russian play  
Well it seems like you've made everybody mad_

— — —

It's almost unbelievable, the number of things that will go sideways when you're aiming for nothing short of perfection.

When it comes to Andy's grand plan, the only flawless part of his evening is Sharon. As per usual. Tonight, "beautiful" isn't nearly a strong enough word. She might as well collect all the warmth and light around her, for as much as she seems to glow. He struggles to avoid staring, but it's a battle he loses over and over again. Her wide, easy smile — the one he's learned is a purely off-duty feature — pulls his attention like a magnet, every time.

No, Sharon can't be improved upon. It's everything he tries to do for her, every special touch he tries to build into the night, to show her how seriously he's taking this, taking _them_...it's all of _that_ that ends up pear-shaped.

It started in his own closet, where he found himself victimized by his lack of foresight. The shirt he'd planned to wear — his best choice for the tie-free look Nicole had suggested for him ("Do you _always_ have to look like such a cop, Dad?") — had, apparently, returned from the cleaners with a blotchy blue stain down its side. The dark green fabric hid the mark just enough to have kept him from noticing it when he hoisted a half-dozen hangers into his closet earlier in the week. And it wasn't like he'd thought to get a good once-over of his outfit the night before.

Still, he _may_ have been able to keep this SNAFU hidden under his jacket all evening. He would've...except, given past experience, there was a 50-50 chance Sharon would end up chilly after dinner. In that case, it would have been just weird, not to mention _rude_ , to not offer her his extra layer.

Those odds left him rifling through his closet, cursing himself for having worn his best black suit on Tuesday. He had to improvise. Navy pinstripes, crisp white shirt, deep red tie and matching suspenders. The only piece unchanged from the original plan were his dress shoes, shined to a more pronounced luster than usual.

The change wasn't great, but it was fine. And his last-minute closet diving didn't leave him scrambling for time. He'd built an extra half hour into his schedule.

Unfortunately, that careful schedule hadn't anticipated that the florist would sell out of purple tulips, even after he'd called ahead to check that there were some in stock.

"Oh, sorry," the shopkeeper explained when Andy asked, "another guy just game in and bought all three dozen." He shrugged. "I figured he was the one who called, so I..."

The florist's excuse faded into widened eyes as Andy took a long inhale through his nose. Whatever else happened, he had to stay calm. His schedule would end up _completely_ shot if he managed to pass out.

"Um, I _do_ have plenty of red roses…"

Andy leveled a stare at the man. _Roses?_ Cliché. Sharon likes tulips. He gathered this vital information through scattered stories of her childhood. Tulips remind her of the sudden brightness and warmth of springtime back east, rows and rows of vivid, bell-shaped blooms lining the walk at her grandparents' house, handfuls of flowers gathered into vases next to the lemon-frosted birthday cakes of her youth.

Purple's her favorite color, the obvious choice. But a combination of her favorites was out of the question. In their absence, another option caught his eye. He pointed toward a cooler behind the counter, where giant soft pink tulips pressed against the glass. Their label read, ' _Ballerina'._

"Can I get a dozen of those pink ones and, uh…" He strolled down the store's narrow length, peering at the offerings. "Let's do a dozen of the white ones, too."

The florist bustled into motion, hoisting buckets of flowers onto a cart stacked with tissue paper and cellophane. "I have a beautiful white vase that would look great with these, if you're—"

"Go for it." Andy said, pulling his wallet from his pocket. "The whole nine yards."

Still, it was with second-string flowers that he climbed back into his car, now five minutes behind his worst-case schedule. And the LA traffic gods were not on his side.

An accident down in Sherman Oaks had the 405 backed up all the way onto the 5. At a quarter to 7, when he'd planned to be knocking on Sharon's door, he was still inching through traffic in the Valley. The realization left Andy muttering — and then _not_ muttering — a string of profanities at the cars around him.

He called Serve, pulled out every excuse in the book to get the hostess to push their 'extremely coveted reservation' back a half-hour. Then, still ten miles out from Los Feliz, he bit the bullet and texted Sharon.

That's to say, he texted the woman who's probably never been late for anything, ever, let alone something she's looked forward to.

 _Hey, traffic on the 405 was a mess. Might not make it by 7. Didn't want you to worry._

Andy tapped the send button. In almost the same instant, he regretting the cool, casual tone of the message. He tapped out a sequel, alternating his attention between his phone and the crawling traffic surrounding him.

 _I'm really looking forward to dinner and hate to be late._

Scanning for an opening in the left lane, he tried not to dwell on the fact he could get through the jam with the flicks of a couple switches. They taunted him, right there on the side of the console. But he'd already announced his delay, and he didn't care to be on the receiving end of the Inquisition when he showed up at Sharon's place. So, rather than take the shortcut, he made it into a joke:

 _But I figured you'd be mad if I went Code 3 just to get there on time._

He could only hope Sharon would end up smiling on the other end, despite his inability to get to her place on time. The full range of her possible reactions left him drumming his fingers along the top of the steering wheel until his phone buzzed several minutes later.

Her response, thankfully, didn't include the words 'never mind, asshole.'

Not that Sharon would actually text the word 'asshole.' But she's capable of implying it. Her actual words, _I'm not going anywhere_ , left him grinning as the traffic began opening up ahead of him.

As it turned out, Andy was standing outside her door by 7:08. It could've been worse. Still, he took a deep breath and worked his expression into an apology as he knocked.

Just his luck, it was Rusty who opened the door. Before Andy could smooth his reaction, the kid cocked an eyebrow and was left fighting back a smile. "Did someone, like, dent your car or something?"

"No," he grumbled, "I'm just running a little late."

Rusty shrugged as he stepped back to pull the door open. "I don't think she's ready yet, anyway."

" _Really?_ "

With another, more exaggerated shrug, he stepped to Sharon's bedroom door and knocked. "Oh, Sharon," he sing-songed. "You have a visitor."

Her muffled voice filtered through the door a few seconds later, leaving Andy shooting a questioning look at Rusty.

"She said she'll be right out," he explained.

Andy nodded. With that established, a quick, deep silence settled between them. It was borderline ridiculous, the tension hanging in the moment. He couldn't fight back a comparison to the night he'd picked Sophia Belmonte up for senior prom, wearing a poor-fitting gray tux, carrying a dozen half-wilted pink carnations, and driving his mom's Buick.

He'd gotten less of a silent appraisal from Mr. Belmonte than what he got out of one Mr. Beck. The kid crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes as he leaned back against the side of the couch. "So you're going somewhere nice, I'm guessing."

"Yeah, this new place downtown."

"Huh, that's good," he said in a tone that would have just as easily fit in a conversation about an ant infestation. His eyes found a point of focus in the kitchen. "You made reservations?"

Andy scoffed. "Yeah, kid, I have a reservation." He rolled his wrist to check his watch, wanting to make sure this was still true. When he looked back up, Rusty had raised his brow in a show of skepticism. Andy forced a sharp sigh, for what felt like the hundredth time of the evening. "It's under control."

"If you say so."

He hadn't asked Sharon what she'd told her kids about this...outing. It wasn't like it was any of his business, really. But now he wished he'd gone ahead and stuck his nose into it, if only so he'd known whether he needed to offer up some kind of reassurance to her youngest.

As their silence stretched back into awkward territory, Andy gave into it. "Look…"

He hadn't known what point, exactly, he planned to make from there. Luckily, he didn't have to figure out. Following a few moments of his silent floundering, Sharon's door clicked open. She stepped into the living room, distracted by the contents of her purse, spouting apologies, and looking absolutely stunning.

"Sorry, sorry, I couldn't find my bag." She slung its strap over her shoulder. Having righted herself, her perfectly tinted lips — Andy figured he had the go-ahead to fully notice these details, now — quirked as she took in the scene, her eyes flitting between Andy and Rusty. "Everything okay?"

It was probably for the best that the kid spoke up first. "Yeah, Sharon." He nodded toward the door. "I'm headed out."

"Okay." She smoothly stepped into his path as he headed across the room. "You'll be home by ten?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll drive carefully?"

"Yep."

"Okay." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders before turning out of his way. Behind his back, she shot Andy a knowing look, mouthed, "Sorry" in his direction.

He lifted a nonchalant shoulder. As Rusty ducked out the door, he called out, "Bye, kid," for good measure.

"Yeah, bye." The door clanked shut behind him.

 _Finally_. Despite Andy's previous dinners with Sharon, this particular stop at her condo, carrying the evening's high stakes, was nerve-wracking enough without an audience. Still, he found himself grasping for a cliche to fill the space between the two of them. "Tough crowd."

She twisted her lips into a pursed grin as her eyes lifted skyward. "I don't know why he felt the need to stick around."

On that point, Andy had a few guesses. But rather than sour the evening with mention of Rusty's past life, he held out the flowers. "Uh, I managed to convince the florist I didn't want roses."

She tipped onto her toes to peer into the opaque white cellophane before taking hold of the vase with a happy hum. "Oh, tulips. My favorite." Her smile widened as she met his eyes. "Thank you, Andy."

The reflexive answer stuck in his throat. _You're welcome_ didn't cover the warmth rising in his chest at the sight of her happiness. It left him sure that he'd hand-deliver flowers every day from here out, if he'd earn a smile like this on even half those occasions.

But that felt a little _much_ , for their first "official" date. Instead, he cast his hands wide and said, "It's the least I could do," as she arranged the flowers, just so, at the middle of her dining table.

Once Sharon finished fluffing the blooms and folding the crinkly plastic further down the vase, she turned to him with her eyes narrowed and sparking with mischief. "The least you could do in exchange for _what_ exactly?"

The truth, as it tends to do, flowed from Andy's mouth before he stopped to think about it. "For you agreeing to go to dinner with me."

This was too real, too much to say. Sharon's lips parted, then closed again, as her expression faded from playfulness to confusion, settling eventually somewhere in the "sad" range before her eyes dropped to the floor.

 _Shit_. He scrambled to fix whatever storm he'd just kicked up. "Um, I mean—"

At the same time, she said, "Why do you—"

When she looked up, Andy was surprised to find her wearing a wide-eyed smile. He gave her a nod. "Go ahead."

With a small shake of her head, she took a few steps in his direction. Her smile smoothed into a wry quirk before she asked, "You think I need a reward for letting you take me to a fancy restaurant?"

"Um, well…" _Damn, she's distracting when she does this half-serious maybe-flirting interrogation thing._ "I don't know how _fancy_ the restaurant is." At her silent response — a sidelong look that said he's hedging — he shrugged. "It just seemed fitting, I guess. Not a reward, or anything like that."

This left her brightening again. "Good." She rested her palm, briefly, on his chest as she passed him on her way toward the door. "How close are we to being late?"

"Ah." He glanced at his watch as he followed her out. "It's gonna be close."

At that point, Andy couldn't have cared less about the restaurant, beyond it being what he'd promised her yesterday. Despite his earlier worries about ruining the whole thing, their odd little conversation had left him at ease. They could have stopped at any strip mall and wound up as the best-dressed patrons at Chipotle; he was certain they'd still have a great time.

That assessment held true until they arrived at the front door of Serve.

* * *

 _A/N: Surprise, part II! There's gonna be more! What do y'all think about Andy's approach to Date Night in Los Angeles?_


	3. Chapter 3

_Posh_.

It was this first word describing Serve that probably should've stuck in Andy's attention.

Standing in the restaurant's lobby, surrounded by a cross-section of the Southland's would-bes and wannabes, he revisits the _Times_ review that brought him here. A copy of the article is framed and displayed on the wall.

 _Posh and romantic, this new downtown eatery features an inventive, joyful take on head chef Marcus Villa's signature Mediterranean cuisine…_

If only he'd held out for "lowkey and romantic" or even "stodgy and romantic," maybe he wouldn't be standing by for what should've been a reserved table. He definitely wouldn't be spending the wait dodging selfies and wincing through whatever it is they call music in here.

In short, he could've avoided feeling every minute of his age.

He returns to his spot against the wall, next to the stool Sharon managed to grab a half hour ago. At least the pounding bass piped into the space gives him an excuse to lean close when he passes on an update. "The hostess said it'll be another ten minutes or so."

"Okay." She stretches her arms long, across the back of the chair, and winces as she rolls her head from side to side.

They'd had a crushing week; gangland murders always turn up the pressure, especially with witnesses in the mix. Andy curses himself for recognizing, too late, that he could've done something _other_ than shoehorn this dinner onto the end of it. It could've waited, as much as his impatience told him he needed to pull the trigger.

"I'm sorry about all this," he grumbles as a herd of twentysomethings pushes through the front door. "I called to make sure the reservation was still good—"

Her hand closes around his wrist. "Andy, it's fine." She doesn't release him, a fact that makes the wait feel _almost_ worth it. A moment later, her thumb tracing idly along his watchband kicks the delay into _definitely_ worth it territory. Enough so that he resents the hostess a little for showing up to seat them.

They've just gotten their drinks when a square, ruddy faced man pushes to the neighboring table. A wisp of a young woman settles across from him, tugging at the hem of her dress as her companion waxes about the art of production. On and on he drones, reminding Andy of no one other than Mike Tao — though he's sure Tao has better dinner manners.

When a new song blares over the stereo, rather than lean closer to his date, Mr. Bigshot practically yells, "Well I've pulled in a few big deals over the past few months. Most of 'em are still under wraps, not on IMDB yet. Very hush-hush, you know how the studios are."

Beyond the so-called producer's attention, Andy has fixed him with a flat, heavy stare. _Of course_. This is _just_ the kind of aspiring shot-caller he wants to be sitting next to on what is easily the heaviest, most important meal of his adult life.

Across his own table, the subject of this overbaked read lifts a brow. Sharon is unbothered by their neighbors and unamused by his annoyance. "You might be the one person least suited to live in LA," she quips.

"You may be right."

Her eyes narrow as she sips her wine. This, this is where it starts. Or, rather, ends. This is where she jolts awake and realizes she can't possibly _date_ someone who can't rein in his irritation at a time like this. Does Andy have the bearing for the occasional tailgate or baseball game? Sure. Homemade dinners paired with a pile of DVDs? Who doesn't? But he isn't suited for the high class outings she deserves.

For the moment, though, her likely realization is interrupted by the waiter.

Fitting with the night's theme, Sharon's order turns into an apologetic list of the kitchen's shortages. Just like they're out of the sauvignon blanc she asked for earlier, they're out of salmon, scallops, and the petit filet.

"Maybe it'd be easier to tell us what you _do_ have," Andy grits.

"Uh," the waiter swallows as he returns his attention to Sharon "well, I would suggest the duck breast."

A brash choice. _Who eats duck, anyway?_ But Sharon's lips curl upward, past the point of mere politeness. "That sounds great."

With wariness turning his voice too-bright, the waiter turns to Andy. "For you, sir?"

His butternut ravioli order thankfully, for both men, goes off without a hitch. But after jotting on his pad and mumbling something about getting the food right out, the waiter disappears into the stream of staff flitting between the tables. He hadn't noticed they need water refills.

And so it goes. Through dinner, Andy balances his attention between an oddly halting conversation with Sharon and his inner defeatist rant. The longer they're at their table, the more he convinces himself he's crashing and burning. Between the flashy surroundings, inept waitstaff, food and wine shortages, and an increasingly aggressive, one-sided game of footsie happening at the next table, the entire situation is a fiasco.

Reason would tell him it's just one dinner, the latest of dozens he's had with Sharon over the past few years, and so a few hiccups shouldn't kick him off the rails. But tonight is supposed to be a gesture. He meant for it to be _real_ , to show her that he's significant other material. And it's impossible to describe how badly he wants this — _them_ — to work.

In fact, now that his cards are on the table, Andy has no idea what he'll do if it doesn't.

Sharon is his closest friend. She's listened, unflinching, to the deep, ugly truths he's otherwise only spilled to his sponsors or his counselor. And she's still here. By her own admission, she's shared more of her past with him than she has with anyone beyond her family. Every now and then she indulges his instinct to watch over her, even though she's still capable of kicking his ass with a single look. She has a sneaky sense of humor and is generally fun to be around. Oh, and she happens to be gorgeous.

He started out swearing to ignore that last part to preserve the rest. It was a useless promise. Every step he's taken in her direction has left him wanting to take another. And now here he is, hating his greed for putting him on the verge of losing it all.

A heavy sigh from across the table breaks through his spiralling mood. "Andy. What's wrong?" Sharon's voice is a low mix of exasperation and curiosity.

 _Busted_.

"I just…" He forces a long exhale, emptying his lungs and filing down the edges of his annoyance. With the air goes his will to ignore the tension looming overhead. "I wanted tonight to be perfect. And it…" He looks around the dim, swank room. "It hasn't been that. At all."

As much as he worries he'll find an annoyed glare or a straightforward nod of agreement, he can't resist checking Sharon's reaction. Her gaze has floated to a point high on the wall behind him. She rolls her lips together. Against all odds, she's holding back a smile.

Now it's his turn to be curious. "What?"

"I, for one, have had a lovely time," her smile breaks through as she drops her eyes to his. "Despite the fact you've been wound tighter than a spring all night."

"Well," Andy frowns as he settles back into his chair. "That's good. I mean, that you've had a good time." He can't argue her second point.

The waiter stops at their table, check in hand. "Can I get you anything else?"

Sharon shoots Andy a warning look, deflecting what would've been a short answer. "No," she grins up at the man, "I think we're done for tonight."

Before he can set down the check, Andy hands the waiter his Visa. The man's eyes widen at the sight of the card, as if he'd expected them to run out on the tab. "Oh, okay, I'll have that right back out for you."

Andy waits until he's out of earshot before muttering, "I doubt it."

Sharon lowers her chin in his direction, like she's looking over the glasses she isn't wearing. "They just opened."

"I know." He sighs, rubs at his face. The night's parade of mistakes marches through his head. And, still, he apparently isn't finished fucking things up.

Meanwhile, at the next table over, Mr. Bigshot Producer's date is practically sitting in his lap.

 _Over here, I'll be doing good if my date doesn't shoot me before the night's out_.

Cool fingers tap his, relocating his attention back where it belongs. "So, I think next time," Sharon grins, "we'll go somewhere that's been open more than a week."

 _Next time?_ He blinks at her, weighing the chance he may have misheard her. She answers his unspoken question with a quick, coy roll of her eyes and a widening smile.

Recovering from his surprise, he says, "Sure. I'll let you pick."

"How about letting me pick a spot for dessert, too?"

 _She wants to stay out longer? Even after everything?_

"Y-yeah, of course."


	4. Chapter 4

Sharon cups her palms around a mug of tea, willing its warmth to seep into her skin. Andy's jacket, hung over her shoulders, goes a long way toward keeping her comfortable in the aggressive air conditioning, but the hot ceramic thaws her icy fingers. Lush bass strains reach her ears, pleasantly bouncing over the gentle _tsk-tsk_ rhythm of a snare. On the stage, a singer beams between sips of water, loosening the scarf draped around her neck as she nods to her band's beat.

At the corner of Sharon's vision, Andy enjoys his cheesecake, taking his time, alternating bites with sips of coffee. When the singer steps back to the mic and sets into a song about heartbreak — the tune gives away its subject matter — a swift certainty strikes her: she's glad to be sitting here with him, his solid form blocking her into the booth, sharing bouts of small talk and gentle silence.

In some ways, it's been a lifetime since she's had this, a special someone with whom she can share life's little joys. In truth, though, she's enjoyed this bond with Andy for months — _years_ if she was being fully honest with herself — even as she'd held it at arm's length. And yet, there's something perfectly singular about this moment, a contented calm she'd love to bottle up for a hectic day.

Maybe it's Sharon's desire to recapture this state sometime in the future that leaves her interrupting it in the present. She signals the discussion with a good-natured bump of her shoulder against his. "You know we have to talk to Taylor, right?"

Andy blinks over at her as if she's roused him from a nap. Maybe she might as well have. This isn't likely to be his chosen scene, after all. But the corner of his mouth lifts into one of those troublemaking smiles he wears so often. "Why would we want to bring _him_ into a perfectly good thing?"

"Because," she chides over a forkful of blondie, "policy requires it."

And, God, how many times has she double-checked herself against those paragraphs on fraternization? How many hours has she spent drawing invisible and ever-moving boundaries between friendship and more-than-friendship, convincing herself they remained on the side of the former? It's an exercise she'll be glad to abandon.

She chews through the buttery cookie as Andy's gaze goes thoughtful, drifting to the window over her shoulder. More than a decade of experience has left him with a justified distrust of Taylor, and he'd no doubt turn over every "creative workaround" he could find before presenting himself, and their relationship, before the Chief.

Sharon, after hiding a grin along the rim of her mug, opts to save him the trouble. "Assuming you'd like to do this again," she delicately replaces her tea onto its square white napkin. "That's how it has to be."

This is a topic she neither planned nor wanted to discuss tonight. It felt, on the outlook, too much like placing the cart before the horse. Bringing the administrative burden of their job into the picture represents a leap into legitimacy, official coupledom, full stop. A few hours ago, even, she would've gone cold at the possibility.

But the overwhelming comfort of the evening, combined with their extravagant, if imperfect, dinner, has a best-of-both-worlds quality that Sharon can't deny. It's like pulling on a pair of soft-worn jeans, only to find they're flattering from every angle and match equally well with a t-shirt or a blouse and blazer. Her earlier anxiety proved unfounded — despite his tension at dinner, Andy is the same person she's spent more and more time with over the last few years. And despite her earlier nerves, she's managed to be the same person he's found long-ranging and increasingly obvious excuses to be around.

"So," Andy's voice cuts through the far-off stare she's fixed on the remainder of her blondie. "Them's the rules, huh?"

A short laugh escapes through her nose. "Them's the rules," she echoes.

He slides his now-empty plate out of the way, depositing his wadded napkin atop it. "Well…" he rests his elbows on the table and balances his mug between his palms as he squints toward the stage. "What do you think he'll say?"

Sharon lifts a brow. What Taylor might realistically say has been long overshadowed in her mind by what she _fears_ he'll say. That fear features an ultimatum: _one of you goes_. That's the kind of roadblock _any_ relationship, let alone a brand-new one, would struggle to bypass. She smooths her napkin across her lap. Its wrinkles tighten and disappear as she tugs. "Does it matter?"

 _If it matters, we'll have to pull back_. Forget this night and all the other nights, all the hazy possibilities that have begun to take shape. If they're unwilling to consider a shift in their careers, then they have no right to be doing this at all.

She glances over to find Andy watching her sidelong. Mischief glints in his eyes. It only intensifies when she reiterates her question with a tilt of her head. He pushes a frown that's, somehow, also a grin.

"Nah, not really. I wouldn't mind watching him squirm a little, though."

The image, so easy to imagine, leaves her lips curling. "I have a feeling that's near-guaranteed."

Taylor never has known what to make of Sharon, from what she can tell. And he's explained to her his position on Andy: a loose cannon, one mistake away from a jettison, one smart-ass remark from a demotion. Whatever the Chief's reaction, it's unlikely to be positive.

Without warning, Andy flips the question in her direction. Or, rather, he catches her earlier reticence and tosses it back. "You're worried about how he'll take it?"

The band winds down from its song, prompting a scattered applause. In the sudden quiet, Sharon shakes her head. "I'm not worried, exactly. But he has quite a bit of power over us."

His brows knit loosely. "Only over our jobs."

 _Only_. How is it that one word can carry so much meaning?

When it's a worst case, spelled out and cast aside. Yes, Taylor could split them up, professionally. But her own suggestion of disclosing their relationship to the chief, which is, itself, a product of Andy asking her out, shows they're ready to take that chance. They no longer need the excuse of working together to _be_ together. That's the takeaway.

"You're right about that."

This eases Andy's expression. As the band kicks into a more upbeat tune, he settles back into the bench, letting his shoulder rest close to Sharon's. He angles toward her. "Besides, everyone knows he's afraid of you."

"Really?" She scoffs, rolls her eyes. "That's news to _me._ "

"Hey." His voice hits a low, quiet note that slides down her spine. "It'll be okay."

She believes him. At least in this moment. He hasn't yet given her a reason to doubt him. Watching him watching her, she stretches on a wide smile, which he returns.

With this bit of heaviness behind them, he nods to the stage. "You know this song?"

She hums in the affirmative. "'In a Mellow Tone.' Ella Fitzgerald, I think."

The waitress stops by their table with a carafe of decaf. Andy holds out his mug for a refill, thanks her with a nod. Following a wincing sip, he rests his palms on his thighs. "Well, it's not my usual, but I gotta say I like it."

He could be talking about the coffee, the music, the venue, this entire first date of theirs. He could be talking about _her_ , for as much as she's heard about his post-divorce relationships. But, after the mess of overthinking she's crammed into the day, Sharon opts for 'all of the above.' And, with that same level of decisiveness, she places her palm on his nearest hand, threading her fingers between his.

She smiles toward the stage as Andy's eyes drop to their entwined hands. "I'm glad."

The band plays on.


End file.
